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“I think I could have been an arsonist in another life”
“What, you never tried it out in this one?”
The Fayette County Fire Department had just finished their investigation of the property, turning up no solid clues as to the cause of the blaze. A possible connection to wanted man Joseph Bryer and his offshore accounts with an Arkansan oil drilling company suggested otherwise. The possibility of all evidence related to these accounts being present in this home at the time of the blaze was all but confirmed by the presence of the United States Marshal Service.
“What, like fryin’ ants on the sidewalk? We were busy shooting cow tags with a pump action.”
Rachel finally broke her silent demeanor at that one. “Were the tags still attached to the cows?”
“Usually the cows were dead by then.”
The fire engine roared to life, creeping backwards down the short gravel driveway into a three-point turn to exit.
“Oh no. Officer- Officer don’t you- You call them to come back here!” Rachel, her eyes just skimming over Raylan’s shoulder, turned her eyebrows from raised in jest to suspicion.
“Ma’am, we ask you still keep behind the yellow tape until the area has been cleared.” The ma'am, a stout woman at least old enough to be a grandmother, swatted the tape free of its mooring.
“Damn this fire, you officers have been standing ‘round with your-“ Raylan’s common correction of the job of the Marshal service and their jurisdiction quickly steamrolled “And the dispatch told me yad be on hand before leaving and you’ve up and left, and now I ain’t movin’ til you get that demon out my tree.”
The woman stops her hell march, catching her breath at the end of the driveway and gesturing back to a single floor ranch house.
“Tim, you got a spell for a tree demon?”
“Garden variety demon? Sounds like the kind of thing you’re familiar with.”
Raylan tried not to let his side eye color the rest of his exchange.
“It’s not the demon I’m worried about.”
The yard was kept, the ranch house hunching itself low like the old woman herself. The tree wound upwards, knots in the trunk showing age until the first boughs branched off to scrape the sagging roof of the house. Clinging to one of the thick boughs, claws splintering wood with tail erect, an orange kitten meowed.
Or something akin to a meow. The sound that came out was more of a strangled shout, a wail from the abyss of 90% fangs, rasped from half the night calling out.
No mother, and no sign of giving up its post easily.
The vertical drop was close to 30 feet- a good measure different than any height Raylan may have had on his colleagues.
“You wanna call the fire department back?”
“And drain the pockets of Harlan County and the time of our good volunteers? Come on.” Raylan ran a hand around the circumference of the tree before pursing his lips into a pout.
“If only we had an athletic, young gentleman with a penchant for nesting like an osprey. Could climb up there, rescue that little-”
The caterwaul shrieks again.
Tim groans, eyeing the length of the trunk and down to his boots, to Raylan’s stupid cowboy boots, Rachel’s heeled Cole Haan’s and her quiet refrain from volunteering, and back to the tree.
“You’re gonna owe me something for this. Art’s not going to approve overtime for this little shit.”
“Our love and appreciation only Tim, I assure you.” Rachel smiles. Raylan blanks his expression, leaving his end of the bargain up for grabs.
Tim takes in the height of the tree, eyeing the lowest branches just out of reach. Jacket and bag are quickly drop to a pile in the grass, sleeves pushed up and freeing his arms further.
“Give me a boost at least.”
Raylan laces his fingers together into a stirrup at the base of the tree. Tim takes the step up, looping onto the branch and boots catching the rough bark of the trunk. The kitten again shrieks, backing up further on the branch before thinking better, darting higher instead.
Maybe Raylan should be worried about Tim, picking his way up his route from such a height. Maybe, if he hasn’t seen him pull this kind of stunt at least half a dozen times before in much more precarious situations.
And maybe if he didn’t find himself admiring both Tim’s prowess, and not for the first time. He casts a quick look around, only a little dismayed to see the homeowner, long drowned out by their own conversation, is still present and now joined by a small crowd of retirees.
Well, if the Golden Girls were going to watch, Raylan is going to go ahead and enjoy the view as well.
Rachel kept her own arms crossed, the hand covering her smirk her last bid of professionalism. It was an unfortunate side effect to being the number one member to the Dumbass Gutterson Fanclub- Rachel long accepted that, but her chair position was up for grabs should Raylan be interested in co-captaining.
Man and beast were on the same bough now. The kitten had its ears set to glide, tiny claws gripping the narrowing branch underneath it. Tim settled, straddling the branch for balance, and extended a hand to the cat. A quiet, hesitant hiss followed, a paw batting open clawed at Tim’s forearm. At least the fire department would have come equipped with something to keep skin and those tiny needle point claws from coming into contact with one another.
A pair of falconer gloves, ideally.
Tim was regretting leaving his jacket behind. He cursed, casting around and started to unbutton his flannel overshirt.
Raylan was not going to let that whispered blaspheme from Ma’am and her hens go unheard. Tim’s biceps evoked the good lord’s name from many a man.
It must have only taken five minutes, the kitten lured into the warm flannel and now wrapped into a bundle, folded snuggly into Tim’s arms.
As is traditional, what goes up certainly must come down. The beast, now cradled happily in Rachel’s arm, but not before taking a parting shred at Man.
“He’s just a baby, it can’t hurt that bad.”
Tim hissed, freshly scratched skin on his neck and chest smarting with sweat. “So are paper cuts, and they hurt like a motherfucker.”
///
“Vet says it’s a girl, unchipped. Rachel says she’s naming her Timber-“
“Cute-“
“-’Because Tim wouldn’t be appropriate for such a brave little Princess.’ She’s going to spoil that cat.”
“I wasn’t against keeping the cat. Why did Rachel get to keep the cat?”
Raylan and Tim stood in Tim’s kitchen, Raylan minding the boiling pasta on the stove out of the corner of his eye, and minding Tim trying his best to clean up the whisker thin scratches on his chest and face.
“I think the cat made that decision. Besides,” Raylan gave the pasta a swirl, “I didn’t think you liked having animals around.” A hum from Tim follows.
“I didn’t think you liked much of anything at all?” Tim leaves the question open, his arms moving to encircle Raylan’s waist. Raylan chuckles, leaning into the touch.
“I’ve had cats. They keep things clean, bring you presents, just like to be close to you...” Raylan’s hand steadies Tim with a hand on the small of his back and turns back into the hold.
“Oh. We’re already a pair of cats.”
///
Rachel arrives the next day with a new frame for her desk, little Timber already at home in the niche where her wedding photo had been ousted. When Raylan dips out during lunch, Tim gets an earful about the quirks and features of his new namesake. When he doesn’t return for the rest of the afternoon, Tim’s annoyance to suspicion is all but confirmed when Raylan’s car is already in the driveway upon his walk home. He finds Raylan in the kitchen, quickly turning around and blocking the sink at the sound of the front door closing.
“You ditched me.”
“I have…a good reason. I have- hey!” Raylan crosses the distance between them in a handful of strides, one wet hand tagging Tim’s elbow to turn him. “Have you…seen the new towels in the bathroom - lately?” Tim hums, letting Raylan meander him to his own hallway bathroom. He can see a shadow moving under the door, feeling every muscle in his body holding his eyes from a death roll.
“You already named the new bathroom towel, didn’t you.”